“No more of that, my dear girl. You must be up early when the ship docks to-morrow morning, so it’s time for you to say your prayers and go to bed.”
“Ah, yes, I always say my prayers,” she breathed in low tones. “And will you remember to say a prayer for the soul of poor Teresa who found her lover and lost him so soon?”
“God may be a trifle surprised at hearing from a perfect stranger,” he answered, with his cynical twinkle, “but I am always at your service, Miss Fernandez.”
“It will comfort me,” said she, “to know you believe I am still good—in spite of—no matter what—no matter what—oh, Mr. McClement, I am such a very, very unhappy woman.”
She sobbed the words. For the first time her proud and righteous composure had broken. It was the realization that in all the world there was no one else than this man who could comprehend her, in whom, if needs be, she could unreservedly confide. He was a link, as faithful as forged iron, between the brief joy of which she had been bereft and the dark perspective of the future.
McClement made no comment. He knew when silence was golden. Teresa quickly regained her poise. The display of emotion had been like the swirl of an eddy on the surface of a deep, swift stream.
“To have a second mate left on the beach means so little in a great fleet of ships like the Fruit Company’s,” said she. “The captain will report him absent from duty, and it is soon forgotten. Mr. Cary was a new man in the service—a stranger—they scratch him off the list. And you have packed his clothes in the two bags, Mr. McClement? And all the little things that belonged to him?”
“Yes. I found his home address—a letter from his mother. I kept it for you. Shall I send the stuff to her, or what? How about waiting another trip?”
“Wait for what?” Teresa exclaimed. “Mr. Cary is dead, I tell you. Colonel Fajardo killed him. How else can it be—think, Mr. McClement, two days the Tarragona was at Porto Colombia, and two days at Santa Marta loading bananas—a whole week on the coast before we sailed for Kingston. And the Company’s radio stations at those ports! I have told you this over and over again. Can you imagine Mr. Cary alive and not sending a radio to me—to the captain—to explain why he was missing? It is impossible. A whole week on the coast and then to Kingston.”
“I grant you all that,” replied McClement. “It has knocked the props pretty well from under me. What about Dick Cary’s mother? There’s the rub.”